


You Don't Bore Me.

by Raechyy



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8071903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raechyy/pseuds/Raechyy
Summary: "I stand between you and the abyss. So I suggest you move, and try to play ball to the best of your ability."The Joker is back in Arkham after capture post-SS, and it is tasked to Ophelia Albarn, a hard-faced psychiatrist, to decide whether he is criminally culpable for his actions. Joker (SS)/OC, I don't know where this is going but as the story develops there will be death, rape/non-con, it'll get violent and smutty. Which is what you're here for :P





	

One thing Ophelia wished she had known, when she took on her job, was how cold Arkham Asylum constantly was.

Even in the peak of summer, the thick brickwork of the imposing building kept the rooms inside cold. Surely that couldn't have been good for the inmates – sorry, patients – of this particular slice of hell on earth. She wished she'd opted for something more substantial than a silk blouse and pencil skirt. She shivered as she walked through the halls to her office, ready for another incredibly long shift. Today, they were to receive the clown prince of hell himself – the Joker. He was assigned to her by the financial king of Gotham City, Bruce Wayne himself, who had acquisitioned Arkham in an attempt to try and help improve the failing facility. Impressed with her work in neighbouring cities, he had requested her run Arkham Asylum and turn around its' misfortune and reputation. It was a mammoth task, but after six gruelling months, she felt like they were beginning to turn a corner. CCTV had been installed, to protect staff and patients. A thorough review of staff had seen some bad apples plucked from the tree, and a better management/staff line of communication had revived life back into some of the caring, but fed up staff, who now knew that their concerns and suggestions on improvements would be taken seriously. Ophelia's next task was to see whether Mr. Wayne's generosity would stretch to some refurbishment, redecoration – and heating. It was bloody cold. 

Her office was a sea of tranquility in amongst a screaming ocean of despair, thick glass and wood keeping out the tortured howls of the unfortunate miseries that languished in these old halls. She had paid for it to be decorated herself, all rich jewel tones, shimmering metallic accents and opulent fabrics. Her office was also her therapy space, so she wanted it pleasant for her patients too. Even the chaise longue, designed as it was to be practical in restraining violent inmates, was also pretty in luxe metallic sheen leather. She had turned the storage cupboard next door into an observatory, so trainees, law enforcement and others could watch her office interviews if they needed to. The glass was one way, so it looked like a mirror from her office. She had even framed the window, to make it more inconspicuous. 

Cherry roses sat plump on her desk, no doubt a gift from Bruce Wayne. He was asking a lot from her, taking on the Joker. His previous psychiatrists had either been killed, driven insane, or fallen in love with him – she remembered the sweet Harley Quinn during her normal life, before she'd been tossed here like old junk. But the Joker needed a strong minded, strong willed psychiatrist, and Ophelia Albarn was the perfect fit. 

She sat in her office chair and switched on the heating and vibration functions, to bring some relief to her stressed, aching muscles. Knowing the Joker's long, violent history had kept her tossing and turning all night – that and the fact that she knew her sessions with him would be watched by other senior psych staff, after the disaster with Dr. Quinzell. She grabbed her appointment sheet for the day – ten minutes until her first patient, a schizophrenic called Alexi. He was a sweet young thing, when he wasn't being driven to murder by voices. Therapy wouldn't cure the patients in here – Arkham was where the incurable were sent to die. Ophelia was determined, however, to be the voice Arkham patients needed, and make sure their lives were at least comfortable. 

Alexi's appointment flew by, and Ophelia was sad – he'd been having a productive therapy session, talking of his family in Russia. Her geniune interest in Russian culture had made conversation easy for him, and he was happy to take his medication after the session. Ophelia enjoyed when her patients felt they could trust her – after all, criminal or not, no one asks to hear voices telling them to kill people. 

She had ten minutes before the Joker was due to arrive, so she quickly flicked through his notes. A sordid history of unconfirmed diagnoses, violent crimes too numerous to count, and a picture of him, all glittering metal teeth and piercing blue eyes. She knocked back a swig of strong coffee and contemplated opening up the large windows to have a cigarette. As she plucked one out of the box and took it between her bright red lips, the door to her office opened. Two orderlies stood, flanking a tall, pale man with acid green hair and a tightly bound straight jacket. She counted three other psychiatrists, who would be watching through the observatory window. There was also a further security guard, who stood outside. Ophelia gestured the orderlies in, and they moved the Joker onto the chaise, moving to restrain him. She put a hand up to stop them.

"That won't be necesasry, gentlemen," she smiled. The taller orderly frowned at her. Joker grinned his glittering grin.

"And why isn't my restraint necessary, good Doctor?" 

"Because my name isn't Harleen. We won't be making googly eyes at each other over the table, I won't be allowing you to bring a machine gun into my house, and you won't be strapping me to a table and zapping me to death," she snipped. She had no illusions about how dangerous the Joker was, but she refused to be intimidated by him either. 

The Joker cackled slowly as she place her cigarette back on the table. It was a chilling sound, and made the hairs on her arms stand to attention, but she didn't show it. He was still cackling as she moved towards him, smoothing her skirt as she sat at the chair opposite the chaise. She watched all his actions, noting them for her reports later. Everything about him was an exaggeration, from the way he languidly stretched, free from the restraint of a straight jacket, to his dramatic flop back onto the chaise.

"So is this how you want me Doc? Lying here, extolling all of the hardships of my youth, whilst you cluck and hum and sympathise, and ask me to tell you about my mother, all the while you decide which drugs you're going to pump into me to get me back into the straight jacket?" he said, turning to the side and propping himself up on one arm, making faux doe-eyes at her. Her lip twitched in a smile that was not warm, nor sincere.

"Not exactly, Joker, no. You can, if you want, lie here and tell me one of your lies about your hideous past, but you're not obliged. I'm here to observe, and observe I am. You also won't be getting any medication, until I've thoroughly assessed your condition," she said. His eyes narrowed and he sprung off the chair. The orderlies moved, but she held her hand up again. They stopped, hands on their tazer guns. Joker placed a hand on both arms of her chair and leaned down, so their faces were inches from each other.

"And what makes you think I won't just snap your pretty little neck right here, right now?" he growled, licking his teeth. "I could, quite easily." His eyes were narrowed, hers unblinking. Her mouth twitched. 

"Well, I suppose you could, and then two 6ft plus orderlies are going to jam 100,000 collective volts up your arse and fry you like this evening's chicken. It's last chance saloon for you, Joker. You've yet to receive any official diagnosis of your mental state, and no psychiatrist in the state is willing to vouch for you, given the epedemic we have of them being murdered and all. I have six weeks to decide whether or not you're criminally responsible for your actions, or just a certifiable nutjob who will spend the next half-decade or so making life miserable for the orderlies, psychiatrists and your fellow patients here. I stand between you and the abyss. So I suggest you move, and try to play ball to the best of your ability." 

They were frozen for the longest time before the Joker conceded and sat, bolt upright, on the chaise, evidently sizing up his formidable new plaything. She grabbed her pen and a notebook from her desk and gave him a pointed look. 

"So, are you going to sit and continue this pointless charade of attempting a power play, or are we going to try and understand one another?" she said, raising an eyebrow. He was silent for a few seconds, before letting out a barking laugh that startled her. 

"Sure thing, Doc. Whaddaya wanna know?" He leaned back on the chaise.

"Let's start with... your tattoos. You've a lot of ink there. Is it sending a message? To make yourself look like a big, bad gangster boss?" she said, gesturing to his colourful body. He grinned.

"It's a lot of reasons, Doc. Everyone keeps calling me 'damaged goods'. Damaged goods are marked. They stand out. They aren't like the others. And I'm the most damaged goods of all, so I best stand out a mile!" he cackled, lifting his shirt to reveal a torso covered in ink. She laughed, and he cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"I like your analogy. I don't think it's right, however. If standing out was a marker of damage, I'm pretty sure I'd be in here alongside you," she said, pointing to her vivid red hair. She then, matter-of-factly, stood and lifted her skirt almost to her crotch. The Joker's eyes widened a second, as he took in her ghostly white thighs covered in bright ink, an array of flowers tattooed as if someone had outlined a bouquet in black ink and then splashed watercolour on them. She smoothed her skirt back down and untucked her shirt, lifting it up to underneath her bra, where more acid-bright tattoos covered her. He was fascinated with them, trying to memorise them before she neatly tucked herself back in and sat back down. The Joker clicked his tongue, darting it out to lick his cracked lips.

"That is highly unorthodox behaviour, Doc. Trying to seduce me with your womanly body is exactly how my Harley ended up in here in the first place," he said, his blue eyes boring into her grey ones. She took no heed of him, flicking her eyes down to her notepad, her voice a murmur as she wrote.

"I have no intention of seducing you, Joker, so you can settle your rampant libido down. I was showing you that your tattoos, bright hair colour and piercings are an extension of your personality, not a byproduct of mania. Most people struggle to find their place in society; you're no different. Humans tend to fall into two categories, the subservient and the rebel. The subservient follows the crowd, blends in. It's a good survival mechanism. The rebel breaks away from the established norms. Perhaps a differing world view manifests itself in the way we present ourselves, almost like an aposematism for humans." She was still writing when she finished her words. The Joker watched her intently, mulling over her words.

"So essentially what you're saying is, the green hair is a warning to potential predators that I'm toxic?" he mused, a lazy grin plastered on his face. She looked up to meet his gaze now, resting her chin on her immaculately painted nails. 

"I think in your case, it's more a warning that you ARE a predator, and a venomous one at that," she said. He cocked his head and leaned forward, closing the gap between them again.

"So, my good Doktor... what does that make you?" he said, his eyes flicking between hers and her firey vermilion hair, coiffed in a loose French twist. She considered the question, absentmindedly stroking her chin.

"I'm a poison arrow frog. Bright, mostly harmless, nice to look at, but fuck with me and I will end the world as you know it." 

"I like you, Doc. You're not boring. I hate being bored. I have one tiny request, if you don't mind," he said. He was still leaning forward, his intense stare almost burning through her retinas.

"Well, I aim to please. You've done some fucking horrible things, Joker, I won't forgive you for the misery you have rained down on Gotham. But, you haven't killed me yet, so I'd like to think we're off to a good start. What is your 'tiny request'? Baring in mind that if it involves things that may maim, injure, or kill my patients, it's going to have to be a no," she said. Her voice was light, and the Joker cackled again.

"Oh, I'm not in the mood to cause grievous bodily harm today, Doc. I am just dyyyying for a cigarette, and noticed you had one between your lips when I made my grand arrival," he said, his voice almost a sensual drone. She nodded and walked to her desk, picking up her abandoned cigarette and popping it back in her mouth, and grabbing one for the Joker. She walked behind her desk and opened the grand French doors, gesturing him onto the balcony. He followed slowly, his movements deliberate, almost catlike, as he drank in every part of the outdoors. Although they were still inside the heavily gated complex, they were several floors up and had a fantastic view of the Gotham skyline. 

"We're at least forty feet up, so I wouldn't jump if I were you," she said, watching his eyes dart around. He guffawed heartily as she lit his cigarette and handed it to him, lighting hers too and tucking the lighter into her bra.

"I'm psychotic, not suicidal, good Doctor. Although your concern is appreciated." They stood in silence on the balcony, taking in the scenery. This surprised Ophelia, who expected him to be trying to calculate an escape route. He nodded towards a brightly coloured building a few miles away, shining even in the bright light of Gotham's summer mornings.

"That's my place. I miss it. I will get back there, eventually, you know. And neither you nor Batsy will be able to stop me," he said, taking a large drag of the cigarette. Ophelia smiled and gazed at him, her tone matter-of-fact as she threw her finished cigarette over the balcony, exhaling menthol fumes into the clear day.

"Well then, I suggest when you do fancy your next breakout attempt, make sure I'm dead first, Joker," she said, stepping towards him. She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than Joker's 6 foot 2 stature. She closed the gap between him and the balcony, plucked his cigarette from his mouth, drawing herself to her fullest height. He looked bemused as she continued, her steely grey eyes flashing. 

"I will warn you this now. This is MY house. You may be the clown Prince of Gotham, but I am the Empress of Arkham. If I have even a hint, the slighest suspicion that you are staging a riot or any escape attempt that puts my patients in danger, I will not hesitate to strap you down and lobotomise you. I will scoop out the juicy parts of your psychotic mind and leave you an infantile, incontinent, slobbering mess, then leave you at the mercy of the other criminal inmates. If you co-operate with me, I will do my hardest to try and uncross the fucking messed up wires in your mind. I'll even make your stay pleasant. But if you bring war to my door, you WILL be a casualty.  
I think we're done for the day, you're exclusively under my care so I'll be your only psych POC. Anything goes wrong, you come to me. You need anything, you come to me. Just behave yourself, otherwise you and I will fall out, a lot. And you'll lose." Her eyes were electric, heavy with the weight of her words. The Joker broke out into a wide grin, licking his shimmering metal teeth. He leaned down towards her, pressing his lips against her ear, to whisper in her ear.  
"Thanks for the heads up, doc. When I'm ready to bail this place, I'll make sure to take your pretty little ass out first." His breath was hot on her ear, his tone low, the promise very real. He licked her face and she jumped back, turning to the guards as she walked back into the room, wiping his saliva off her face with a tissue.

"Get him out of here. SOL-1. I want him watched, 24-7. When he's eating, sleeping, shitting, tugging himself off. You keep eyes on him at all times. I want not a speck of air from outside these walls getting into his room. He comes out at 10am, to see me, and that is all he does."

The orderlies came and grabbed the Joker, dragging him out of the room. "I'll see you again tomorrow, Doktor!" he sang, cackling maniacally as he was led away down the corridor. Ophelia sighed and sat down on her desk. She was under no illusion – if the Joker managed to get outside help, she was dead. The door to her office opened, and the psychiatrists who had been observing filtered in.

"Well... that was interesting viewing," said the taller of the two men, Dr. Visaldys. The other, Dr. Adams, clucked in assent.

"He's got a sweet spot for you," he said.

"Of course he hasn't," Ophelia scoffed. "I represent a different approach to psychiatric care, that's all. As soon as he finds a pattern to my methodology, he'll get bored of me and our progress will stall."

"Progress? You think you're making progress already?" Dr. Ruttenberg, the female psych asked. Ophelia nodded.

"Of course I have. I'm already ruling out Multiple Personality Disorder and Schizophrenia. Nothing about his behaviour suggests he attributes it to voices or other personalities. His moods, whilst erratic in nature, don't peak and trough, which rules out bipolar disorder. I see nothing to suggest depression. He's certainly displaying classic sociopathic tendencies, as well as psychopathy and narcissism. I will be using these next 6 weeks to my fullest advantage, and expect to have at least 60 contact hours over that time. That will give me the time with him I need to prepare a full statement for the DA's office. But early signs are hopeful." 

"Well, we would like to observe at least two contact hours a week, to corroborate your findings," said Dr. Adams. Ophelia's eyes narrowed. 

"I was under the impression that all of the Joker's contact hours would be monitored, given the issues we've had in the past?" she questioned.

"I don't believe that will be necessary with you, Dr. Albarn. You seem to have a grasp on his complex personality traits, and whilst he is interested in you, he won't endanger you. You're the only alleviation of his boredom," said Dr. Adams.

"And when he does get bored of me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well then, we'll ensure extra safeguards are put in place to protect you," he replied, placing a hand on her shoulder before turning to leave the room. Dr. Ruttenberg shot her a sympathetic look. 

"He's going to be a challege. I suggest you divide out your other patients, just for now, to give you full focus. I'll take on your other patients for now. You need to be fast to keep up with the Joker," she said. Ophelia nodded. 

As they all filtered out of the room, Ophelia put her head in her hands. The Joker's threat sat heavy in her head. He was going to prove to be more work than any of her other patients.

"Bruce Wayne, you're a fucker," she muttered, reaching for another cigarette.


End file.
